


Say My Name

by exybee



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exybee/pseuds/exybee
Summary: Neil's an aspiring writer who's disenchanted with the human experience, and Andrew's a grumpy barista who refuses to spell Neil's name right.AKA: Neil’s a hot mess and Andrew's bad at flirting.





	Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably an OOC Neil to my regular OOC Neil LMAO.
> 
> A quick, but gracious thank you to @conniptions, @zipplekink and @prouveyrac for their support and kindness!
> 
> Enjoy!

The world was silent.

Neil was awake well before dawn, roused by the desperate need to create something, but trapped in his bed by an unrelenting lack of ambition. The old, coarse material of his mattress itched where his face was pressed against it, and the musty scent of sweat and disappointment tickled his nose. Neil’s fingers brushed against the heavy fabric of his quilt, no doubt covered in last night’s coffee and an embarrassing pile of unedited manuscripts. He lifted his head, peeking underneath the covers to survey the land— surprisingly free of broken pens and drugstore wine— before shoving his blankets to the floor and reaching up to pull the dusty blinds open.

And then suddenly, the world awakened around him, as if waiting for him to take notice. Sunlight poured through the cracks in his window, bright and gentle and steady in a way that Neil could never be. Neil held the blinds open and pressed a cheek to the frost covered glass. He could almost taste the ice.

Neil pushed himself back until he fell onto the bed and spared a glance at his nightstand—containing a dust-covered copy of his literature degree—and wondered if his early morning pretentiousness was the cause or the result.

He needed to piss. Neil shivered as his feet hit the bare floor. He had just enough money saved up to afford one month’s worth of heat, and frankly, he’d rather that month be January.

Neil shuffled in the direction of his tiny bathroom, bending down to pick up a pair of sweatpants and wincing as he shoved his feet in, the material icy against his skin.

After relieving himself, Neil stood in front of the mirror and placed his hands gingerly on the sink’s edge, like he did every morning. He wanted to find something recognizable.

He never did.

Like the summer winds and autumn leaves, Neil changed and winter held him captive; his life becoming characterized by short days and long nights and an icy exterior.

Everything died in winter, and Neil was no exception. His branches hung low with the weight of the season and he withered and dried, cocooning himself with blankets and a heavy heart until spring came and his mind thawed, and the seeds of inspiration unfurled from the cracks.

He brought his gaze back to his reflection, lips bitten raw, and stared until his eyes glazed over. They said that depression was an ocean, but Neil’s eyes were a glacial blue.

* * *

The kitchen was no better. Takeout boxes littered the counters, cabinet doors were left open, dishes filled the sink; it was a mediocre ode to loneliness. 

Neil began clearing off the countertop, and underneath a rather nasty pile of used paper plates was a pen.

Neil chewed on his lip, his pulse hot beneath his skin, scorching his fingertips.

He uncapped the pen, propped himself against the counter and started scribbling on the top, shaky and childlike, ink smearing against the soft pad of his hand.

The sun was his lover and he wanted to be kissed. He wanted to feel the gentle heat against his skin, to nurture the gardens within him and burn away winter’s chill.

Soon, the entire countertop was covered in his scrawl. Grocery lists and the alphabet. The last thing his mother had said to him. His Chinese takeout order. The way the sun felt against his back and how it felt to be alive in June. His full name.

_Art exists because life is not enough._

He blinked and took a step back.

Neil was going to write his way out.

* * *

Two cups of lukewarm coffee later and Neil had decided to cultivate these grains of creativity into an early morning run.

Except an early morning run became a mid-morning jog, and by noon Neil had comfortably settled for an afternoon walk around Town Square.

A cool shower and an unnecessary key search later—they were in his gloves—and Neil was out the door, ready to take on the world.

Or at least his.

* * *

Eventually, Neil found his way downtown. The December air was unforgiving and dipped in frost, nipping at his uncovered face. The clouds were thick with snow, a silver overcast. The walk sign flashed and Neil struggled to keep up with the city’s brisk pace, nearly colliding with the army of business suits and last-minute shoppers that monopolized the sidewalks.

Neil attempted to get his bearings via street signs, but after a few disorienting minutes, he admitted defeat and pulled out his phone. It had been months since Neil had moved to the city, but he was just as clueless as he was his first night out.

Except Neil wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Pocketing his phone once more, Neil turned onto Main Street, taking in the neat row of artsy shops and boutiques.

Neil roamed the block, his attention elsewhere, someplace warm. He looked down just in time to collide with a wooden sidewalk sign, catching it before it could hit the ground. Placing it back, Neil inspected the sign for any damage. It was an advertisement for _Foxtail Coffee Co._

Neil remembered seeing the tiny cafe a street ago. He shrugged and turned around.

He might as well.

When he made it inside, Neil was immediately enveloped in the warm, bitter scent of coffee grounds. He shivered, adjusting to the temperature. He wiped his slush covered boots onto the rug and unwrapped his scarf from his neck, taking in the dim lighting and the mocha colored furniture as he shuffled to the back of the line. Smooth jazz hummed in the background, low and pleasant, soothing his insides.

“Next,” a voice called from the register.

Neil stepped up to the counter. “Can I get a large coffee. Black, please,” he said, not looking up. He rummaged through his wallet, hoping to find some decent tip money.

“Mcdonalds is two blocks over.”

Neil’s head shot up, meeting a pair of bright hazel eyes, flecked green and gold like autumn leaves. They swirled in the light and it took Neil a minute to respond, “What?”

The scowl deepened. “Cash or card?”

Neil’s mouth twisted downward as the desire for coffee outweighed the snarky response crawling up his throat.

Neil tasted pennies, but he swallowed and said, “Card.” before glancing down and catching the flash of a nametag. _Andrew_.

Handing Andrew his card, he swiped it with a surprising vigor, before practically throwing it at Neil.

“Name?” Andrew asked, and Neil couldn’t figure out how he could lace a simple question with such disdain.

“Uh, Neil?”

Andrew rolled his eyes before scribbling on the cup. “Next.”

* * *

Finally, Neil’s name was called. He hopped up from his seat and grabbed his coffee, but not before catching _Uh, Neal_ in messy handwriting on the back.

Neil scoffed and settled at his table to write.

Except, he couldn’t.

His mind wandered as he finished his coffee, aimless and distorted. His thoughts were consumed by a roaring fire, and—

“The tables are for paying customers only.” Neil turned to see Andrew, the barista, clearing off the table next to his.

“I bought a coffee,” Neil said, brows knitting in a frown.

“You bought what most Americans can make at home with minimal effort. Three hours ago.”

“Business is business,” Neil replied, “but now that you’ve mentioned it, I would like a refill.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, unattended. He was still trying to figure out what he’d spent the last three hours doing. The answer, Neil realized, was painfully obvious as he glanced down at his journal, open and unused and his coffee lid, smeared in bite marks.

“Say that again and you’ll be wearing a large black coffee.”

“You remembered my order, that’s cute.” Neil’s mouth was running rampant, wild and unchecked. He brought a hand to his mouth; a poor attempt at self-restraint.

Andrew’s eyes flashed, and Neil couldn’t help but notice how the spark lingered, sharp and devastating.

Andrew turned away and began sweeping, and Neil went back to writing—not writing— doodling, really, too distracted to focus.

“What are you writing?” Andrew asked.

“What makes you think I’m a writer?” Neil asked, tilting his head.

“Do you want the nice truth or the not-so-nice truth.”

Neil’s mouth quirked. “Nice truth.”

“You’ve sat here for three hours staring at a journal, not once flipping the page, ordered a black coffee, no sugar, that you downed in record time, and you haven’t once asked to turn up the radio. So you’re either a writer or a fucking weirdo.”

“None of that makes me a weirdo.” Neil sniffed.

“Then what are you writing?” Andrew asked again, impatience staining his voice, bright and rich. Neil liked the color.

Neil smiled and said, “I don’t know yet. I don’t remember the last time I’ve written.”

“What happened?”

Neil’s mouth was like sandpaper, grating his words until they were rough and dry. “Nothing?”

Andrew looked at him, and Neil thought he would crumble in his seat.

“Okay,” Andrew said after some time, and he picked up his broom and left.

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as much as Neil could spare. Neil kept his truths close to his chest, a blanket, a shield against the cold, the ice in his mind far worse than the frigid air outside.

Neil spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about a tired boy with honest eyes.

* * *

After a restless night, Neil convinced himself that another day outside would do him good, and predictably, he was back at the Foxtail.

Andrew rolled his eyes when Neil walked up to the bar. “Let me guess. Coffee. Large. Black. Shall I supersize it as well?”

Neil wanted to pull at his mouth to keep from smiling. “I don’t understand why my order bothers you so much. What would you recommend, then?”

Andrew’s eyes flickered to his then switched to the screen, tapping out an order before holding out a slender hand.

Neil raised his eyebrows but handed him his card. Andrew swiped it and handed Neil his receipt.

$9.74. Jesus Christ.

Neil waved the receipt in the air. “Don’t expect a tip.”

Andrew flipped him off.

* * *

Neil was unsurprised but amused to find _Kneel_ scribbled on his cup.

After a few unproductive hours, Neil was ready to crack his head at the table—like a piggy bank—and manually search for the words that evaded him.

“Well?” A familiar voice asked from somewhere behind him.

“Well?” Neil echoed, not bothering to look back.

He felt Andrew brush against his back as he wiped the table behind him. When he finished, he made his way to Neil’s table, his expression unamused.

“It tastes like the leading cause of death in America.” Neil had waited until Andrew was gone to ask another barista what it was. A salted caramel mocha with two extra pumps of caramel, and an extra shot of espresso, apparently.

Andrew shrugged and continued to work. Neil watched Andrew’s hands, skillful and ready, and thought of late summer afternoons.

“Poetry or prose?”

Neil chewed that over, but anyway he phrased it tasted wrong. He settled for, “A little of both, though my poetry is more on the pretentious side.”

“Isn’t all poetry?” Andrew raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you could argue that,” Neil said with a grin.

“What do you write about—when you’re writing that is.”

Dull and artificial. It was a question Neil was all too familiar with. One he tried avoiding at all costs, but it was different with Andrew. Somehow, it was different.

“People,” Neil said at last. “How they change, but ultimately stay the same.”

“That’s... vague and unexciting.”

“It is,” Neil said, huffing out a laugh. It was vague and unexciting and tragic and heartbreaking, but most nights it stopped Neil’s chest from caving in.

* * *

Neil didn’t visit the Foxtail again that week. He had a part-time job as a fitness attendant for the small, locally owned gym two blocks from his apartment, and spent the rest of his week swiping membership cards and wiping off sweat-stained equipment.

Late night shifts always left Neil muted and gray, and it wasn’t until Monday that he could muster enough color to venture out into the world again.

Neil’s shoulders relaxed as he walked into the cafe, the smell of pastries and artificial syrups greeting him warmly. He missed it, oddly enough.

Neil didn’t miss a beat as he walked up to the bar.

“I was thinking,” Neil started. “you’ve swiped my card at least five times already—”

“You’re now just realizing how often you come here?” Andrew said, not looking up from the register.

“—and you still can’t spell my name right?” Neil teased.

Andrew was quiet as he handed Neil his receipt, and Neil took the opportunity to search his face, cold and heavy-lidded. Neil shivered.

“You all right?” Neil asked carefully.

“You ever just want to pick up and leave and never look back?” Andrew said, voice tight as he handed Neil his drink.

Neil hadn’t expected an answer—or rather a serious one.

Neil’s smile was sad. “I don’t think I’ve stayed in the same city for more than four months.”

“Got a bounty?” Andrew asked, his movements less jerky.

“No, I wish. Maybe then I would actually have a reason to leave, instead of half-assed excuses.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t you have mediocre coffee orders to fill?” Neil teased, but the pang in his chest was anything but light.

“I’m on break.”

Neil frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Andrew tore off his apron and walked around the counter to find a table.

“Tell me,” Andrew said when they settled down. The fire was back, turning hazel into liquid gold and igniting something deep inside Neil’s chest.

“Only if you’ll tell me something after,” Neil said finally.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Wanna lock pinkies too?”

Neil’s eyes crinkled as he held out a pinkie.

Andrew slid him an unamused look.

“I don’t know,” Neil started. “I just— I can’t stay still. There’s always something pulling me, pushing me towards something better. Do you ever feel like that? Like if you’re not everywhere, you’re missing out? I’ve always felt as though there was more I just wasn’t getting, that I haven’t found yet.”

“FOMO?”

“FOMO?” Neil asked. “Should I be offended?”

“Everything about you is offensive. It’s the fear of missing out.”

“Ahh.” Neil murmured, resting his chin in his palm. He knew that all too well.

“This thing you’re looking for, have you found it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’re constantly moving around. After you’ve left the previous city, do you ever find what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t think so,” Neil said, finding his voice. “Have you? Have you found what you’re looking for?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for something?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Neil laughed, a low, bitter sound.

“Break’s over.” Andrew pushed in his chair and walked towards the bar.

* * *

Neil was packing up to leave when Andrew walked over to him, tired and sticky after a day’s work, with a paper cup in his hand. Andrew was blocking Neil’s view of the winter day, standing with his back to the window. He must have walked all the way around to get Neil’s attention.

Neil raised an eyebrow. “I thought if I asked for a refill I would be wearing it?”

“Not too late for that,” Andrew sneered. The sun reflected off of his hair like a golden halo; Neil wondered if he shared the thought with Andrew he would snark about pretentious poetry or upend the hot cup on his head.

“—Besides, you wanted a truth, so.” Andrew dropped the cup gracelessly onto the table before turning away. “Here.”

Neil laughed and watched him walk behind the counter. He twisted the cup around, finding the familiar handwriting almost immediately.

_Neil, just in case you decide to stay._

Followed by a ten-digit number.

Seeing his name spelled correctly made him smile almost as bright as Andrew’s eyes. Neil walked out into the sun and breathed in the cold winter air. On his way home, he noticed the snow was beginning to melt.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as both an apology to 2017 and a promise to 2018. 
> 
> I promise to be better, both as a writer and a person. I promise to love myself and put myself first. I promise to listen and understand, to be gentle and empathetic. I promise to not treat myself as an object, but as a human being who learns and makes mistakes, who is strong and beautiful and will never take less than she deserves.
> 
> I hope you all have a great new year. I hope you stay happy, healthy, and pursue your dreams in 2018. I appreciate all the love and support. xoxo


End file.
